Have a Little Faith in Me
by Queen of Hellions
Summary: My take on Hector Barbossa's childhood. Summary in a nutshell. Va-Va-Va-Voom.
1. Prologue

Growing up is never an easy thing. Parents and children alike suffer the same challenges and are enlightened by the same situations. There are times when a child needs an embrace from a parent and a time when a child runs in fear from their guardians, unable to look them in the eye. Parents, on the other hand, also have their times of need for their offspring and are sometimes unable to look a child, the embodiment of innocence, in the eye because of their sins. The fact is, maturity has its laughs and laments for both adult and child. It is a crucial part of life that teaches one about the world around them, whether it is slowly or quickly. This message holds true in many instances, though I shall focus on one.  
  
Hector Barbossa.  
  
Hector had a painful path to maturity and his parents had a painful journey with their son as well. He traveled a long road of losses, quarrels, danger and many other things a young child should not be settled with. Fate, however, plays a cruel game with the few mortals it wishes to corrupt and mold into the twisted, demented beings that are our antagonists today. Hector fell victim to this game of fate, which led him to his long- lasting demise.  
  
But what happened exactly? What did fate do to corrupt this man? This child?  
  
One must first understand there is good in all people...all.  
  
I believe William Shakespeare put it best...  
  
Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage; The which if you with patient ears attend, What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.  
  
A note before we begin in travel to the past:  
  
This is purely from my imagination. The events in this story are not true, probably anyway. They are purely fiction, my view on Barbossa's past. Argue with it all you want...tell me it's wrong...I could give a rat's tail. This is purely from my imagination, inspired by a few people in my life, fellow writers who support me and fill my mind with vivid descriptions and give life to my characters. Thank you, namely Sparrow, RiRi, Steven, Laura and Jen...the rest of you know who you are and that I love you deeply.  
  
As for those of you still bitching, your logic doesn't apply here. How can it with a mysterious character of no stated origins and when there is practically no logic left in the world?  
  
I write for enjoyment. I write for my readers. I write for myself.  
  
And now, quoting Shakespeare again:  
  
We lay our scene. 


	2. Purple Silk

Purple Silk  
  
The year was 1742. The port was small, compared to standards, and the folk were the quaintest you would ever come across. They went about their businesses, their hustle and bustle, their trivial toils, seemingly oblivious to the world around them. They were simple folk and nothing more.  
  
In this charming, English trade-port, there were few children. People became so obsessed with their profitable trades they forgot about the obsession and the passion of the flesh. Whether that was a sin or a blessing resides with you, all's well and done so what can be done about it? Now, these seven or eight-odd children attended a small schoolhouse near the center of the village. No one took it into much consideration; they simply sent their children off with best wishes and a lunch and went about their own doings. Though the childrens' ages had a wide range they were taught at the same level in the same room. The class consisted of all boys, for little girls simply stayed home and were educated in the ways of house with perhaps a dose of tutoring.  
  
One of these boys was never fond of the schoolmaster, Master Creevy. Creevy, in turn, was never fond of the lad though he pursued educating him at the thought of a challenge. The boy couldn't have been more than eight and was intelligent enough, if not brighter, and that was exactly what irked him. The boy always made the others feel like fools, including the schoolmaster himself, and he tended to gaze off out the single window in the schoolhouse. The problem with that was the window was clear across the room from the boy, though it was said to be one of the most beautiful, yet confining, ways to view the ocean. When he wasn't daydreaming at lessons, he would be in the schoolyard. The boy had a code of strict honor and discipline that the other, older boys sought to break. He, however, never resisted picked a fight or defending himself. The arrogance earned him many bruises, enemies and a few rough edges, but his honor remained stagnant.  
  
All these thoughts were drifting through Hector's mind now as he stared at the mount of damp dirt before him. This was the aftermath of the last discussion he had had with the schoolmaster, the old man's last words to him. Beneath the matted, wet tangle of auburn trestles, which had escaped their leather-bound snare, a pair of misty eyes, rimmed with a deep and passionate blue, blazed.  
  
Creevy was dead.  
  
As the rain began to fall once more in hazy, misty sheets, Hector continued to stare at the mound before him. He was oblivious to the folk passing him by, muttering their woeful remarks and lamenting as if there were no tomorrow. That couldn't possibly be Creevy under that mound, his own schoolmaster. Sure, he never cared for the man, but it was only a step away from someone he knew well, such as his family. Death couldn't strike someone he knew and saw not but a few days ago. Sure, Aidan Lark's father had been laid to rest a few months ago, but Hector's mother had assured him it was because the man was a damn sinner. "Time to go, M'love," came a soft voice from behind the young boy. A milky, slender hand rested itself upon his small shoulders.  
  
"Yes'm." Hector replied softly, turning towards the woman that stood behind him. Her eyes were a dazzling hazel, soft and powdery and her skin held a similar, powdery complexion. Her lips were full, pink as the petals of a rose, and her hair fell in the same auburn locks as her son's, though they curled around the bony features of her face.  
  
The woman offered her child a soft grin as the back of her hand caressed his small cheeks. "You're bound to catch a chill," she whispered softly.  
  
Hector's cheeks flushed a light shade of pink at his mother's warm touch. She always seemed to have a warm glow about her. Immediately, he launched himself into his mother's arms and held her around the waist tightly. As Hector felt her arms wrap around him, a certain comfort overtook him, allowing him to untense.  
  
"What do we say to guide a soul to Heaven, Hector?" She questioned, brow slowly arching as she began to busy herself by attempting to bring the boy's unruly locks back into their neat ponytail. She frowned as Hector let out an annoyed sigh, giving him a stern look. "What did we say at your uncle's funeral? You know, I know you do."  
  
Hector looked somewhat embarrassed, stealing a quick glance around to make sure no one was around to listen. "Bless thy soul to kingdom come, Guide thy soul to where the stars are hung. Lord be with you is what I pray, to Heaven is where you will be whisked away."  
  
"Amen," said the woman with a satisfied smile. She bent down and kissed her child upon the brow, holding him close to her heart. "Now, we must make our way away."  
  
As she rose, Hector took a glance back to the mound of dirt. Creevy was dead indeed.  
  
"Mum...?"  
  
He turned back to question her, though the woman had already begun to wander off, already a good distance away from him. Her common, cloth dress seemed to adapt a look of wealth whenever she wore it. Everyone else made the dresses look so plain and worn. Its tatterered folds turned to purple silk as it billowed in the wind. She looked so serene and calm walking amongst those graves... 


	3. The Leather Strap

Leather Strap  
  
It was late in the eve when the two returned to their home. The home was nothing extravagant, simple a tiny cottage. Hector's mother didn't waste a minute after she entered, making her way to the stove and kindling it, nursing the embers within. The soaked Hector only watched, mirror-like eyes reflecting the dancing flames. Once he was sure he felt the warmed circulating the house, he made a dash towards the back of the cottage. A few crude wooden soldiers lay scattered about the tarnished floor along with a whittled dingy. He didn't make it two steps before a stern-looking man stepped out from the doorframe of a room linked to the main room. His path met with Hector's, causing the boy to collide into him.  
  
The man had a tall structure with a muscular structure to accompany his near-giantess. His hair was a brow, unkempt tatter, bound by a red leather strap while his skin was sallow and tanned, stretched out over his bony and jagged features. One would think of it as dried, aged leather. His hands held a similar appearance, with a quality of something singed or withered by time. Behind the broad, prominent nose lingered a pair of narrowed, blue eyes that had an icy, forbidding look about them. Hector's didn't reflect such a horrid nature, now they were widened with insecurity.  
  
"Slow down, boy. Yer soaked t' the bone. Twice as ugly 'n pathetic as any mutt that'd stray ont' my porch an' equally unwelcome."  
  
Hector continued to stare up at his father for a moment, tilting his head off to the side more out of impulse than curiosity. To see such a tall man, a child would have to observe him from a different angle to take him all in. Before he could bow his head in shame from his father's cold glare, Hector's mother stepped in front of him defensively.  
  
"Calm yourself, Vincent. There's no need to take this out on our child."  
  
Before she could utter another word, Vincent raised a hand and struck her sharply across the face. Her eyes widened, welding over with tears.  
  
"Hold your tongue or be it smited to Hell, Marie."  
  
Slowly, Marie's hand wandered towards Hector's shoulder. She couldn't quite locate it at first, though he shifter for her so she could rest upon it. The boy began to stagger off, small hands clinging tightly to the skirts of his mother's dress.  
  
He had not reached the doorframe before his father's bellowing call had come again. How he dreaded it, it was so commanding, yet somehow he always felt compelled to answer it. Whether that was from fear or some sort of hypnotism, he wouldn't know for many years to come when another such voice would come into his life.  
  
"C'mere, boy!"  
  
Slowly, Hector released the fabric, but not before leading his mother towards the wall so she might have something to lean on. Like the dog his father made him out to be, he lowered his head and shuffled across the floor towards the leather-faced man. He was unable to look him in the eyes, so he glanced timidly down to his boots instead. The man seemed satisfied with this reaction. One of his mighty hands took Hector's chin in his hand and forced it upright so he might look at him.  
  
Hector stared up at his father, eyes glazed over with the same fear that was in his mother's eyes. He had let her down...unable to protect her. She had done everything in the world for him and he could not protect her: this monster. His flushed cheeks, the smell of liquor upon his breath...Hector's eyes burned with the smell and he couldn't help wrinkling his nose. Vincent was drunk.  
  
Frowning, Hector looked deeper into his father's eyes as if seeking out answers. Why? That was all his eyes could plea, but he got nothing in return but that stern, stupid glare. He couldn't utter a word, is father grabbed his scruff and dangled him a few inches off the ground. The smell of alcohol hit him again and he flinched, turning his head away slowly. He caught sight of his mother once more. She was huddled up against the far wall, knees brought up to her chest and hands griping against the wall as she cried out weakly.  
  
The only things he could recall of that night were his mother's objective cries and the burn of his father's leather strap meeting his backside. 


	4. All You Need

All You Need  
  
The sun's welcoming beams passed over Hector this morning. He instead awoke to the sound of approaching footsteps upon the creaky floorboards.  
  
As he groggily sat up from the cot he roused from he fell back against the wall. His head was spinning and his backside was numb. Puzzled, he narrowed his eyes in a squint as he took in his surroundings. He was in his room sure enough, but there was a shadowed figure standing in his doorframe. The very sight of the silhouette sent a shiver down his spine. His father. He could slowly make him out from in the shadows, the dark circles that incased his icy optics, his leathers skin stretched over his bony features...  
  
"Up," he said flatly.  
  
Obediently, Hector rose from the bed. He kept his head tucked to his chest for a moment before his father's large hand started to lift his head up. Before he had a chance, Hector jerked his head away from the hand and up quickly. His father's eyes were icy as usual, but a hint of remorse lingered far in the recesses of them. Apparently he had sobered up, for the flush of his cheeks turned to a pale ashy color that stood out on his brown face.  
  
"Get cleaned up."  
  
Still confused and lightly alarmed, Hector stole a glance to the small window on the opposite side of the room. The sun was just rising over the hills, only faint rays drifting past the open-air window and over the floor. He never remembered rising so early, only for Sunday. Sunday was church, which his mother insisted upon. He was sure of one thing at this point; today was not Sunday.  
  
"But father," he started off, "why are we waking so early? It's not Sunday..."  
  
Vincent stiffened slightly, turning his back on his son. He had nothing to fear from Hector, he figured he never would have anything to fear from the boy. He heaved a sigh, Hector wasn't sure if it was a sigh of irritation or a sigh to keep himself from strangling his son.  
  
"You are correct, my son. Today is not Sunday, but today we will be leaving the house early."  
  
Hector was ready to question, but his father gave him a rough nudge towards a basin of water below the window. After catching his balance, he stumbled towards it and took up the cloth. The water was cold, a few days old as well. It wasn't clean, but that wasn't his concern. The water was a few days old and he couldn't dismiss the odor of it; it only reminded him of the liquor. Hesitantly, he took up the cloth from the depths of the basin and started to clean his face with the rough fibers.  
  
"I've got some goods that need to be taken out of town and sold, just a cartload. Shouldn't take more than a week." Vincent sighed again, pressing a thumb into his left temple as a sign of distraught. "Your mother suggested you come, something about saving my soul...but its time you learned the trade, or something of it."  
  
Hector slowly put the cloth back down in the basin and stared at his father once more. He was a merchant, but not one that traveled on the sea. When he was younger he traveled across the endless waters, but age and family caught up with him. He couldn't help feeling like a burden, and his father never made things any easier on his part. He was to become a merchant as well however, an educated one. School had only contributed to that a little. He didn't think anything Creevy uttered was going to help him any further in life than something a stranger could whisper in his ear.  
  
His father's gruff voice brought him back to reality. "An' the first rule you'd best know would be no dawdling."  
  
Again, he didn't have time to respond. Just a few seconds would have saved him, but time was not in his favor. He jumped as a swift slap came in contact with the back of his head. Wincing, he rubbed the back of his head for a moment before briskly walking towards the linen basket in fear of being slapped again. Hector rummaged through the soft, cool sheets and flannel shifts before Vincent interjected again.  
  
"Don't bother. All you need's in the cart."  
  
Somehow Hector doubted this seriously. His father would never do anything for him, let alone pack for him, and he was sure his mother wouldn't be allowed to do such a thing for him either. Swallowing deeply, he took a last glance around the small room he had found sanctuary in for nearly ten years. He felt as though it would be the last time he would ever see it, but at the same time it was if as though it were new, something he'd never seen before. Still in fear of letting his gaze linger on anything too long, he turned to face his father.  
  
Vincent nodded in satisfaction and strode out of the room, footsteps dying off into the outside world. Hector followed a few steps behind, taking in the sights and sounds behind his father's back. 


	5. Departure

Departure  
  
The cart was a magnificent thing to behold for Hector's young eyes. He had heard his father talk for hours about it when his company was over, but he had never risen early enough to see the wooden spectacle. The wood on the cart's bed was dark, traced and outline intricately with a lighter, chestnut wood. A set of leather reigns were resting on the hook of the driver's bench and attached to the reigns were a pair of old, brown nags. They snorted and tossed their heads impatiently, clouds of silver, smoke- like air rushing from their nostrils in the cool morning air. They pawed at the cobbled street as their glossy black eyes remained locked forward on the trail ahead. They had clearly done this many times before, and their impatient anxiousness did not match the age their bodies told in the least.  
  
His intent concentration on the cart was broken as he felt a hand rest upon his shoulder. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the hand belonged to his mother. The skin beneath her eyes was rest and puffy, eyes glistening brightly like dew upon a field of greens. She had been crying.  
  
"Promise to be careful?" She questioned in a whisper, brushing the back of her hand against his cheek. Her touch was soft, nothing like his father's would ever be.  
  
Hector wasn't sure what she was in fear of, but he nodded just to make her happy. It as probably just a mother-type thing. Apparently the nod was appreciated, for the beautiful, infamous smile returned to her face, dimples appearing and curling around her lips. It was enough to make anyone smile, that spark that she kindled and carried. Her brows remained sunken back, however, and the reassuring smile faces. A soft sob escaped her and she looked down just as she burst into a bit. Roughly, she threw her arms around Hector, knees buckling as she pulled him close. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around her, frightened at the sudden change and more confused than ever.  
  
"I would have taken it all back if I could have." She took in a sharp breath and sniffled, "I would have jumped in last night, I would have stood up for you or recommended some other way to him."  
  
She wasn't making anything easier. He could only keep holding onto her tightly, nodding slightly for reassurance. There was a loud clatter as some heavy bundle of supplies was dropped into the bed of the cart. Hector pulled away from his mother, whipping around to see his father hopping out of the bed. Vincent wiped his sweaty brow, taking in a deep breath.  
  
"Get in, boy."  
  
Hector looked back to his mother, she nodded timidly and offered him a soft, sincere smile. It was his turn to be reassured. He knew he couldn't run back to her now, so he did the only thing he knew he could do; get in the cart.  
  
As he drew closer to the cart he had admired earlier, he realized it was much different than his imagination had led him to believe. The wood was chipped and worn, rotting from the inside out. In the breaks of the wood, soft, yellow, powdery bits of wood coated the rims of the gaping holes. The bed wasn't as wide as he had hoped either, or perhaps it was all the bundles that would be enclosed around him. The wheels were just holding on to their rusty rivets, which had seen their share of rain and river alike. Rather than a rounded, smooth surface, the wheel was becoming worn and angled, becoming almost square in shape.  
  
No more observations could be made; Hector felt his father's strong arms hoist his body over the railing and into the cart. Once his father released he fell a good three inches, only to collapse in a bed of hay and sawdust that kept the fragile bundles secure. A few bundles wavered at the new weight and rolled over, enclosing him in a tight spot. His head was pressed against the wood of the railing. At the sound of a crack, he knew the rotting was far worse inside than out. He leaned up as best as he could manage and shoved the bundles aside.  
  
Scrambling to his knees, he clambered atop a few bundles. It was just enough to peer over the railing. He could see his mother waving, the unmistakable tears falling across her pale cheeks. He considered jumping over the railing and running into her arms. She was so warm and welcoming and the cart was everything opposite. The thought died immediately...he'd be back. If he was to learn to become a man and please his mother, he would sacrifice a week. Before he could wave back, the cart lurched forward as the horses began to trot. Falling back into the debris, he remembered the cart's age. No use sitting up...it was going to be a bumpy ride. 


End file.
